Taboo
by ElatedEccentric
Summary: It's wrong. Incest is wrong. It's sick, terrible, utterly twisted; a damning sin. So... how is it that something so bad can feel so good? Arthur/Alfred in that order. Not for kiddies.
1. Chapter 1: Secrets

Disclaimer: You guys know the drill—blah blah blah, don't own, blah blah, never will, blah blah blah... Actually, it's probably a good thing that I don't own it; imagine what I would do if I did.

Warnings: INCEST. See how I put that in big capital letters? That's 'cause that's the whole main plot of this story; an incestuous relationship. It's not nice. It's not pretty. But there it is. Also, there are sex scenes—some graphic, some not. They will come later though. And, erm, language. Yes. And... I believe that's it for this chapter.

* * *

Taboo

Chapter One: Secrets

Alfred has a secret.

"Are you okay?"

He takes a deep breath and looks up from his tray to smile at his best friend. The smile feels fake, forced. From the frown on Kiku's face, it must look that way too. "Yeah, man. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

The quiet Japanese boy sets his tray down beside Alfred's and slides into the seat. The cafeteria is buzzing with the other student's happy chatter, but somehow it seems quieter without Alfred's loud, obnoxious laughter. The blonde rubs irritably at his eyes; the sunlight pouring in from the windows is bright, and makes the white walls of the cafeteria almost blinding. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. His body feels heavy... Really, he's felt like crap for days now.

Most have noticed. Kiku's the only one who bothers to find out why.

"I hate it when you lie to me," Kiku says, and the blonde looks away guiltily. "I tried calling you yesterday, and you never answered. Did something happen?"

"It's nothing," Alfred says, trying to sound happy and careless but failing miserably. He's begun to carefully smash his peas into a pulp on his tray, one by one. Kiku frowns.

"Is it because of that man you've been seeing? That Arthur guy?"

Alfred's insides freeze.

"I told you to be careful, Alfred," Kiku says when he sees the frightened, wide-eyed expression on his friend's face. "I told you dating an older man would lead to trouble. What happened? Did he leave you for someone else? Did his wife find out?"

"I've told you already, he's not married," Alfred snaps, anger and bile rising in his throat. Jesus, why does everyone think he's so stupid? He knew the risks in getting involved with an older man, he's not an idiot.

Except...

Except maybe he is.

He wishes that what had happened—what's happening is something like his friend suggested; being dumped in favor of a new, more experienced lover. An enraged wife who has discovered that her husband has been cheating on her with a teenaged _boy._ Anything but the truth, this terrible, dirty...

"I'm sorry." Alfred blinks and looks up at Kiku in surprise, having been caught up in his thoughts. The Japanese boy looks sad, embarrassed. He picks up his soda can and twirls it against the table top. "I'm just worried, Alfred. You've been so depressed lately. You don't look well, you know? He's hurt you somehow." A paused. Brown eyes widen fearfully. "He didn't... He hasn't, you know—forced you to do anything, has he?" Kiku looks frightened at the thought.

Alfred suppresses a shudder, swallows the bile in his throat that's been climbing steadily. "No, Kiku. He... he hasn't forced me into anything. It's... it's all been consensual."

And that's the worst part, isn't it?

Alfred has willingly had sex with Arthur so many times now. Willingly bent over any available surface, happily spread his legs, screamed the man's name in ecstasy far too many times in the past year to recount.

That's what makes it so sick.

A small voice points out that if Alfred had known, he never would have gotten into such a relationship. It's not his fault, he's the victim here. He's the one who was taken advantage of.

That's what the logical part of his brain says. But the emotional part, the one that's always been the loudest, screams that he still should have_ known_ somehow, still should have been able to sense that Arthur—that Arthur is—

Suddenly, Alfred doubles over his tray, gagging.

"Alfred!" Kiku's arm is around him immediately, and he can feel his friend's concerned brown eyes boring into him. "Come on, we need to get you to the nurse's office—"

"No!" Alfred gasps, and clutches the smaller boy's sleeve. Around them, nearby students are watching the scene with wide eyes, murmuring urgently amongst each other. A few stand but hesitate, unsure of whether they should approach or not. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to speak more calmly. "No, it's okay, Kiku. Really. I don't need the nurse, I'm f-fine."

Kiku doesn't believe him. "Alfred—"

"I'm fine, Kiku. It's just a little bug or something. No big deal." Oh, god, he can't go to the nurse's office! If he goes there and Ms. Elizaveta sees him, she'll probably send him home! And if he goes home, then that means that he'll see Arthur.

He's not sure he wants to see Arthur today, not after all the nightmares he'd had last night. Not after feeling guilty all day. He feels so dirty, standing here surrounded by all these other kids who's biggest worry is a failed Algebra test or whoever they're going out with. He doesn't deserve to be sitting here like this with quiet, gentle Kiku. Oh god, oh god, he hates himself.

"Alfred? Alfred!"

He gently pushes himself away from his friend and rubs at his eyes. God, he's so tired. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in days. How stupid he was, to think he could live with this sin and still be able to live a normal, carefree life! But... but it's not fair, because Arthur's been getting along just fine. He doesn't seem bothered at all. So why can't he...?

"Huugh—!"

"Alfred!"

Oh, look. He's actually puked this time.

No escaping the nurse's office now.

* * *

Mrs. Elizaveta takes one look at him and orders him to lie down as she moves to fetch him a cup of water. She makes Kiku explain what happened; if he wasn't so exhausted, Alfred would protest loudly that he was perfectly capable of explaining everything himself. He _was _the sick one, after all.

That takes too much energy though. So instead, he sips his water and tries to look as offended as possible (and even _that_ takes effort). She sticks one of those little paper thermometers under his tongue and makes disapproving noises as she feels the sides of his neck and peers into his eyes. This little examination seems to go on for hours; in reality, it's only minutes. Finally, she pulls out the thermometer and scowls at it. "Well, you don't have a fever..."

Alfred sighs in relief.

"...But you're not staying here. You're exhausted, Mr. Jones, and likely to come down with a cold if you don't get some rest soon. I'm sending you home."

A month ago, Alfred would have cheered at this (going home early? Sweet!), but that was before everything went to hell. "Oh, come on, really? If I don't have a fever, then I'm not supposed to go home—that's the rules right?"

"You just upchucked your stomach contents all over a cafeteria table. Did you forget about that?"

"I ate too fast."

"Alfred, you didn't eat anything."

"Shuddup, Kiku. Look, I'm fine okay, really I am, just let me go back to class!"

"You're going _home_, Mr. Jones."

Alfred jumps up to prove to them that he's fine, and immediately has to cling to Kiku for support as the world turns violently on it's axis. What little remains left in his stomach threaten to come back up. Strange, he's never felt lightheaded before... He decides he doesn't like it.

Ms. Elizaveta clicks her tongue disapprovingly as Kiku helps the blonde back to his feet. "You're _not_ fine, and you _are_ going home," she says sternly, and begins scribbling out a pass for him. She stops suddenly and gives him a look, half curious, half concerned. "What's wrong with you? Usually you'd be jumping for joy about leaving school early, Mr. Jones."

Alfred looks away and doesn't answer.

* * *

Kiku walks with Alfred to the office, but is told to go to class as soon as Alfred's seated in one of the office chairs. He gives Alfred a worried look as he walks out the door. The blonde tries to return it with what he hopes is a careless grin, and mentally winces when he thinks about how bad it must look. He never was any good at faking smiles.

The office secretary pushes the phone towards him and tells him to call someone. He's been in the office enough times throughout the years for them to know that his parents are rarely available, thanks to their jobs, so there's little point in calling them. Instead, Alfred's usually picked up by an aunt, and uncle, a third cousin twice removed—whatever relative that's in town to watch over him while his parents are away on business.

That's not the case, this time. Today there is no aunt or uncle or cousin. Uncle Jeremy was supposed to come into town, but he canceled at the last minute due to "unforseen events" and asked him to call one of his other relatives. Alfred, with Arthur lazily trailing kisses up his shoulder and neck, had sleepily agreed before hanging up the phone. As soon as he did, Arthur (who had been listening) asked if he was really going to call someone else. And he had said no. Why call someone else when he had Arthur?

This logic had, of course, been after several rowdy bouts of sex, when his mind had been pleasantly fuzzy with afterglow and all had seemed right in the world. When he had forgotten just how sick it all was.

"Mr. Jones, are you going to make a call or not?"

He jumps, startled, and looks down at the secretary's disapproving face. She's tapping her pen against her desk impatiently. He wonders how long he had spaced out. "Sorry," he mutters, and pickes the phone up from it's cradle.

"Remember to dial 9 first."

"Yes'm." He hesitates. He never did call anyone else. Now there's only one person whom he can call, but he really, really doesn't want to see him right now.

"Mr. Jones." She's glaring at him irritably. He sighs heavily and begins dialing.

What choice does he have?

* * *

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

"Hello, Arthur Kirkland speaking."

"Arthur."

"...Alfred? Is everything alright?" Pause. He's probably glancing at the clock. "You're in school, right? You know I don't approve of you skipping."

"I'm in school, okay? Don't lecture me please." Okay, that was kind of harsh. And rude; the secretary's raising her eyebrows. The old bat. "...Sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"It's alright."

"No, it's not, but whatever. Listen Arthur... I'm, um, sick. I guess. The nurse is making me go home early."

"You're sick? What's wrong?"

"I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't—"

"I don't know, okay? I threw up a little at lunch—" ("Oh, that was you?" the secretary asks in surprise, and Alfred resists the urge to flip her off.) "—and now I'm really dizzy and stuff. Nurse said I'm exhausted."

"...I see."

"Can you come pick me up?" _'Please say no.'_

"Of course."

_'Of course...'_

"I'll be there soon. Relax until I get there, okay?"

"...'Kay."

"I love you, Alfred."

"...Love you, too." _'We're going to hell.'_

"I'll see you in a little bit."

"Okay."

_Click._

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Arthur's blue Sedan is pulling up in front of the window. Alfred watches it through the office windows, his stomach churning.

"My ride's here," he tells the secretary as he slowly stands.

"You know the rules. He has to sign you out," she says irritably, and his stomach drops. Logically, he knows Arthur isn't going to do anything in front of them—before, he wouldn't have cared if he did. But now he's scared to be seen anywhere with Arthur. He feels like everyone knows their secret. He imagines disgusted whispers behind his back and scornful glares from those passing by. It makes him want to throw up all over again.

The office door opens, and there's Arthur, dressed neatly in a black cardigan with a white dress shirt underneath, charcoal gray pants, and black loafers. It's funny; even though he dresses like someone's grandfather, he makes it look damn good.

Real damn good.

It's twisted how, even though he feels so horrible and guiltily, it's not enough to keep him from checking out the older man.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks, as he hurries toward him. He must be really worried; his British accent is thicker than usual, which only happens when he's concerned about something. Dark green eyes scan the younger man anxiously. For the briefest of seconds, they seem to linger on the dark bruise that's just barely visible from the edge of the collar of Alfred's shirt.

_"Unnh, Arthur..." Alfred moaned as Arthur bit down harshly on the tender skin a the junction of his neck and shoulder. He licks at it apologetically before pulling back to admire his handiwork; he seemed to love marking Alfred's unblemished skin. The boy didn't mind in the least, though a small voice was screaming at him in the back of his mind, _'Just how do you plan on hiding that tomorrow?'_ That voice was so far away though, and Arthur was so close..._

"Alfred?"

Shit. He spaced out again. "I'm fine," he says mechanically, his voice cracking a little. Arthur frowns. Alfred clears his throat nervously and nods to the sign-out sheet on the counter across from them. "You have to sign me out before we leave."

Arthur nods and gently ruffles his hair. To anyone else, it would have looked like a fatherly gesture; the gentle scrape of blunt nails against the boy's scalp speaks otherwise. Alfred suppresses a shiver. "Of course, of course. May I have a pen please?"

The secretary hands him one, and Alfred sees her studying the Brit's face intently, no doubt cataloging all the similarities between the two. All the other adults who have picked him up in the past haven't resembled him at all. Arthur's different. He and Alfred actually look a lot alike; the same foreheads. Same noses. Same chins. Same ears, even. All these things are surprisingly unnoticeable, unless you actually look for them. When you do, the resemblance is damn near uncanny.

Alfred's been looking for them a lot lately, whether he wants to or not.

The secretary smiles suddenly, obviously pleased that, for once, someone who actually _looks_ like a relative has come to pick him up. "Of course, dear. Here you are—if I may ask, are you Alfred's brother?"

Arthur laughs as he signs his name on the sheet. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Really? You just look _so_ much alike. I hope you don't think me rude for saying so, but you're the first relative that I've seen who actually resembles Alfred." She looks over at the boy suspiciously, as if this whole time he's been calling random people to pick him up and take him to some drug party. _'Crazy old bat.'_

Arthur is quick to jump to his defense. "Don't worry, ah... Mrs. Thompson? Yes, right—they were all relatives, I can assure you. Alfred just... takes after his mother's side more."

Alfred wants to scream.

He doesn't understand how Arthur can speak so casually to her. How can he laugh and smile, like he hasn't spent the last four days screwing a sixteen-year-old boy into the mattress every night? (_'Don't act like you didn't enjoy it,'_ a voice hisses in his ear, but he ignores it.) How can he act like nothing's wrong? Sick? Twisted?

By now, you might be confused. Absolutely, totally, utterly lost, with no idea of what's going on.

Or, more likely, you have a damn good idea, and like Alfred, wish that it weren't true.

But it is.

Alfred's family—his parents, the Jones', his aunts, uncles, the countless cousins—they're not his real family. They're his adoptive family.

But Arthur's real. Arthur is his real family.

'_Sick. Twisted. Wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong—'_

Arthur is his real father.

'_It's wrong. Incest is wrong.'_

Alfred is in love with his father. Alfred has had sex with his father almost every night for nearly a year now.

'_It's taboo. It's disgusting. _I'm _disgusting.'_

Alfred greets his father with long, lingering kisses in the mornings, and leaves even longer, lingering kisses when he heads off to school. He takes showers with his father in the evenings before they go to bed, where they rarely fall asleep before two in the morning. Every night, before falling asleep, Arthur murmurs how much he loves him in his ear.

_'Incest is a sin, and we're going to hell.'_

Alfred just barely manages to make it to the potted plant before vomiting again.

* * *

OH HAI THAR. This is my first Hetalia fic—I'm a little nervous. But this has been bouncing around my head and it wouldn't go away, so I had to write it. I'm a little nervous, like I said, because it deals with such an uncomfortable matter. But...I like writing about uncomfortable things, so here we are! Anyways, I hope you found the first chapter interesting! Please leave me a review, and some constructive criticism if you feel the need. It would be greatly appreciated!

OH YES. Forgotten to mention; the back story where Arthur and Alfred meet, and how they get into their relationship, will be told through a series of flashbacks. First flashback will be in the next chapter. Yes. Okay, NOW you can go review, or whatever.


	2. Chapter 2: Justification

OH EM GEE U GUUUUUYS. -flails- I love you all. Truly I do. So many nice reviews! So much support! NO FLAMES! You guys are totally, wonderfully, completely awesome, you are! I almost named some of my new baby goldfish after you guys, but decided that would be creepy. It's a good thing I didn't, because most of them got eated up by the other fishies. It was sad. I cried. And was promptly motivated to finish this chapter. I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

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Taboo

Chapter Two: Justification

_The first time Arthur saw Alfred, he was struck by how similar and how different his son looks from him mother. _

_Oh, there's no question about it—he definitely takes after Lisette. He has her darker blonde hair, her neat eyebrows (thank the Lord), her bright smile. As he approached the boy slowly, nerves singing with nervous excitement, he was surprised by the blue eyes. Those are a mystery. _

_But for all the resemblances, there are the little things that make him different, that keep him from being her exact likeness. His features, though still soft with baby fat, are more angular, sharper. His chin is a little squarer (like Arthur's), his nose is a little longer and rounder at the tip (like Arthur's), and his forehead is a bit higher (like Arthur's). _

_Oh, and his ears stick out a bit. Like Arthur's. _

_He marveled on how two people's features could blend in such a way as to make something completely different and unique. Beautiful, even. _

_It's true; Alfred is a really good looking kid. Arthur took a moment to gloat to himself; and Peter said that he would never be able to make pretty babies. _

_Ha. _

_"Can I help you?" _

_Arthur is surprised; he hadn't realized that he was standing in front of the boy until he spoke. In front of him (wow, he's a lot taller than he thought he'd be... courtesy of his mother's genes, no doubt) his son was shirtless, sweat rolling down in beads as he wiped his face with his t-shirt. It was a terribly hot day, and the boy seemed to have been diligently mowing his yard for a good while. Even though he was obviously tired, there was still a cheerful, friendly grin on his open face. His blue eyes sparkled; Arthur was enchanted. _

_He was finally getting to meet his son. _

_"Um... hello? Are you okay?"_

_Ah. It would probably be a good idea to say something now, lest he come off as being creepy. He cleared his throat, and asked, "Sorry. I'm a little lost—can you tell me how to get to, er, Green Street from here? I took a few wrong turns..."_

_Alfred (not the name that Arthur would have chosen, but oh well) stared at him blankly for a second, then burst out laughing. "A _few?_ Wow, man, you are way off! Oh, um, sorry—anyways, here's what ya do: go all the way down this street here, like, _all_ the way down, until you come to the four way stop sign, and then you turn left. Go down all the way until you get to the gas station with the broken sign, and then—"_

_In all honesty, Arthur had no intentions of ever going to Green Street. It had merely been the first sentence that popped into his head; he had just been looking for an excuse to talk to Alfred. He __watched the boy gesture as he talked, and idly wondered if he played any sports. He briefly imagined the two of them back at his house in England, playing football in the backyard before dinner. It was a pleasant little image. A tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that it was far too soon to be imagining such things; the boy didn't even know he was adopted. No use jumping the gun. _

_Still... it was nice to dream._

_He didn't bother to listen to the boy, finding that it was much more interesting to watch him and those expressive blue eyes. Then he caught sight of the 'For Sale' sign that stood in the yard of the house next to Alfred's. _'Huh... that's interesting.'

_If it wasn't fate, then he didn't know what was._

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

Alfred grunts but can't bring himself to properly answer. When they got back to Arthur's house (Alfred rarely goes back to his own house these days, unless his parents are home) the older man made him change into some pajamas and then gave him some medicine and a small glass of water. Now he's curled up on the couch with his head in Arthur's lap while the older man watches TV. He's warm and comfortable; the cold, nauseating guilt that's been plaguing him all day has lessened enough so that he's been able to push it to the back of his mind. It still lingers though, keeping him from feeling completely at ease. Still, it's the best he's felt all day, so he's not going to complain.

He yawns sleepily. Whatever it was that Arthur gave him was good stuff. He feels like he could fall asleep at any minute.

Arthur's large, calloused fingers gently card through the boy's hair, and his nails gently scrape against his scalp again, like they had in the office. This time, with no one else around to witness it, Alfred doesn't suppress the shiver that shoots up his spine. "Think you'll be able to stomach some soup tonight?" Arthur asks quietly as he gently picks up one of Alfred's hands in his free one.

"Mmmhmm," Alfred hums, snuggling further into the man's lap. The action earns him a soft laugh, and a gentle kiss to his hand.

It's strange. This always happens; when he's away from Arthur, he's racked by guilt. He feels dirty and disgusting. But then when he's with Arthur, even though the bad feelings linger, it doesn't seem so bad. At least, they become dim enough so that he can suppress them, and focus on the good feelings. He always has to part from Arthur at some point, though, and the guilt comes back. He wonders if he'll ever get over this. Will he ever be able to just be happy with Arthur, and not care that they're related? Or will it always haunt him?

Arthur had told him that he felt guilty about it, but Alfred's never seen him show any signs of discomfort. Did he lie? Or is he just a really good actor?

Alfred's too tired to ask.

"The nurse said that you're sick from exhaustion?" Arthur's quiet voice stirs him from his sleepy thoughts.

"Nnmmm, yeah I guess," he slurs back. "Said I needed to get more sleep. Or somethin'." What _had _she said? Eh, it's too difficult to try to remember...

There's a moment of silence, followed by a deep sigh from Arthur. "That's my fault. I've been keeping you up late these past couple of nights." Though he says this with a blank expression, when Alfred peeks up, he can see the faintest dusting of pink on the older man's cheeks.

"I never complained," he points out.

"Ha. You're very young, Alfred. You kids never complain about too much sex." His hand slips down and his fingers gently rub at the skin of the boy's neck. Alfred's eyelids grow heavier.

"There's such a... such a..." Yawn. "...Such a thing as too much sex?"

"Apparently so, judging by the state of your health. I'm ashamed I didn't see this sooner... I _am_ the responsible one in the relationship—"

"Wha's tha' supposed to mean?"

"—So for the rest of the week, there will be no sex. Okay? Not until your better." He flicks Alfred's nose teasingly, smiling that small, warm smile that makes the boy's skin tingle pleasantly.

He sighs. "Okay..." He's a little disappointed. A little glad. Mostly, though, he just wants to go to sleep. What the heck kind of medicine was that? He needs to ask Arthur about it... later... why is he still awake?

For the next hour, Alfred dozes on and off while Arthur plays with his hair and flips through the news channels, muttering about how terrible American television is.

"You Brits are so picky," Alfred mumbles at one point before dozing off again. Arthur sighs and halfheartedly swats his head. He gets a snore in response.

It's a warm, comfortable moment; when Alfred drifts towards consciousness for a third time, he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like—laying curled up somewhere with the one you love, enjoying a lazy afternoon. His guilt is almost completely forgotten; he feels lighter and happier than he has in a long time. As he absently begins to rub his fingers against Arthur's leg while humming softly, he's sure that nothing can ruin this moment.

But reality is just like his last girlfriend—a cruel and ruthless bitch.

"In other news, a man in Lancaster, Pennsylvania has been charged with a sick crime," the news anchor says on one channel. Arthur pauses his channel flipping, and through the sleepy haze in his mind Alfred perks up in interest. "Sick crimes" were always the most fascinating ones, which in turn made them the most horrifying. He wonders if someone's been brutally murdered. "Thirty nine-year-old John Forehand has been arrested and charged with attempted incest and unlawful contact with a minor after propositioning his own thirteen-year-old daughter for sex on the Internet."

Suddenly, Alfred feels as though the air has been knocked out of his lungs. Beneath him Arthur has gone rigid.

"...Forehand went on the web site using the name 'Bad Daddy' in order to locate the girl; he hasn't been in contact with her for years. Investigators say he proposed a meeting and described sex acts in graphic detail—"

_"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Arthur murmured as he leaned over Alfred, raising the boy's right leg so he could thrust deeper into his tight body. "God, I've wanted you for so long—do you know how hard it's been for me to not throw you against any available surface and fuck you senseless?"_

_Alfred was too busy moaning and clinging to the edges of the desk he was bent over to reply._

"I can't believe it," the co-anchor is saying now, shaking his head in disgust. "It's bad enough that he was going after a minor, but his own _child ?_ That is just—"

_Click._ The TV is turned off.

"I think that's enough of that," Arthur says as he sets the remote down. Alfred detects a slight shake in his voice. He gently untangles himself from his son and stands up. "I'm going to go make you some soup now. Is that alright?" He's avoiding looking at his son's face, which is perfectly fine, because Alfred is doing the same. The boy nods dumbly, curling up into a protective ball. He doesn't look up as his father—_his father,_ dammit—slowly walks away, pale-faced.

The house, which had just seemed so warm and loving, suddenly feels cold and hateful. Almost as it was condemning them for their actions. Alfred chokes back a sob as he buries his face into his knees.

It will always be wrong.

* * *

"There's nothing wrong with us, Alfred."

It's eight o'clock in the evening. Alfred has just gotten out of the shower (he bathed alone tonight, for the first time in nearly two weeks) and Arthur has made him sit on the toilet so that he can towel dry his son's hair. The shower helped to raise his spirits a bit, though he still feels uncomfortable. The tense atmosphere that's been hanging around since they watched the news doesn't help matters. He self-consciously pulls the towel tighter around his waist and presses his legs together tightly, as if it's the first time he's been naked in Arthur's presence. "Where'd that come from?"

"I know what you're thinking," Arthur says quietly, gently rubbing the boy's blonde hair with a fluffy blue towel. He's being slower than necessary, which means that he wants to talk about something serious. Alfred has a pretty good idea of what it is. "After I realized how I felt about you, I thought I was sick. Mentally, I mean."

"Really?"

"Mmm. I know you probably won't believe me when I say this, but I was really torn up inside about it for the longest time. Being in love with my own son... Desiring my son's body... I felt terrible. It's why I held off for so long before making love to you. I kept hoping that my feelings would fade, or that you would lose interest. Attraction is a fleeting emotion for young people."

"That is so stereotypical," Alfred groans, shaking free from the towel to scowl at his father. "What, just because we're young, we can't experience love like adults can?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," Arthur says sternly, and it's such a fatherly way to reply that it makes Alfred squirm uncomfortably. "I just mean that at your age, your emotions tend to run haywire, what with the hormones and all. Love and lust tend to be confused with each other. That's not to say that it's impossible to fall in love at your age; I fell in love with your mother, after all."

Alfred is surprised. He'd figured that he'd been the product of a casual fling between Arthur and a classmate. "Will you tell me about her? My mother?"

Arthur presses his lips together and looks out the bathroom window, which is fogged over from the steam. Alfred has been with him long enough to know that he's gathering his thoughts for his reply. "She was beautiful," he says finally, and Alfred straightens to show that he's giving his full attention. "She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She had eyes so blue that they almost seemed purple—I'd never seen eyes like that on anyone before her. She was an exchange student, and I was the one who was assigned to show her around."

"Did ya put the moves on her?" Alfred asks curiously.

Arthur gives him an exasperated look. "No, I did not 'put the moves' on her. I wasn't like you, Alfred—I was quiet, shy. An introvert."

"Was?"

"Shut up, you little git. I was very polite and friendly to her, but that was it. I had decided five minutes after meeting her that there was no way I could ever be with a girl like her."

Briefly, Alfred can't help but feel jealous of his mother. Then he remembers that she is now dead, and he feels like an ass. If it wasn't for her, he certainly wouldn't be here right now. He shakes his head a little, and asks, "Why the hell would you think that? You told me you were the top of your class. Girls throw themselves at guys like that."

Arthur laughs. "Oh yes, she was interested. However... You see, Alfred, I led a double life back then."

"Like a spy?"

"You watch too much TV. It's rotting your brain. _No,_ not like a spy. What I mean is, at school I was a quiet bookworm who made top marks and never caused trouble, a teacher's dream. But then outside of school, when it was just myself... I'm sad to say that I was a bit of a delinquent."

He is not pleased when Alfred snickers. "I'm sorry," he says when he sees the older man's face. "No, really! It's just that... Well, I mean, it's _you._ You _sew, _you paint landscape pictures, and you believe in fairies—" ("I knew I should never have told you that, you brat," Arthur mutters sulkily.) "—so it's just really hard to picture you as a bad kid."

Arthur huffs. "Well, I was. I was pretty horrible. I vandalized park statues and building walls, I smashed the windows out of cars, I harassed and even mugged a few people. I swore like a sailor and drank far, far too much alcohol."

"Did ya smoke too?"

"Of course."

_"Wow._ And you were never caught?"

Arthur smiles, and Alfred can tell that he's more than a little proud as he replies, "No. Never." He shakes his head with a sigh. "Anyways, she was too good for me. She was a sweet girl who was nice to everyone and drew people to her like moths to a flame—a lot like you, really."

Alfred smiles at this. "She must have been pretty amazing, then."

His father sighs sadly, wistfully. "She was. She truly was."

There's an moment of silence, where Arthur stares off moodily into space and Alfred wishes he could say something to make his father feel better. He opens his mouth to offer words of comfort, but what comes out instead is, "I'm scared, Arthur."

Arthur's head snaps down to look at him. "Scared?"

Aw, shit. Damn his big mouth! And now Arthur's waiting for him to explain—Jesus, he's not ready for this! "Um... It's just that lately, I've been feeling really bad about our, you know... relationship." Arthur is silent. Alfred hastily continues, "I mean, I know it's been a month and a half since I found out you're my—my dad, and I did say that I still wanted to be with you. And I do! I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I-I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and all that cliché romantic stuff." Arthur rolls his eyes at this, but Alfred pays him no mind. "It's just that... this is so wrong, you know? It's like, a taboo. You saw the news—this kind of thing disgusts people. It's not _natural_. If people find out, we could get in a lot of trouble!"

_"I _would get in a lot of trouble," Arthur corrects quietly. "You're the minor. You'd be the victim, and I the sick man who manipulated you. And that's true."

"Shut up, it's not," Alfred says immediately, glaring. A voice points out that it is so totally true; Arthur had been the one who flirted first, who looked at him with dark eyes and let his hands linger whenever he touched the boy. He was the one who initiated the first kiss... but he ignores all this. He doesn't want to blame Arthur for anything. "What I'm trying to say is, I just—I don't see how we could ever really be happy. We'd always have to be careful, we'd always have to keep secrets... I just don't think we'd be happy. And my mood keeps changing, like, all the time! When I'm with you, I am so happy... But then when I'm away, I'm so _un_happy. I'm nervous and miserable all the time. I feel like everybody _knows, _and that they're whispering behind my back_. _I can't... I can't eat, I can't sleep, and... I just want... I just want to be happy again. And I don't think..." He can't bring himself to finish his sentence; he's too afraid to look at Arthur after confessing this, scared that he's made the older man angry. He feels stupid (an unfamiliar feeling, one that he'd rarely experienced at all before meeting Arthur—Jesus Christ on a crutch, where did all his confidence go? Love really does make you pathetic.) and wonders why he couldn't keep his big mouth shut.

Suddenly, Arthur pulls him into a tight hug, cupping the back of his head with one hand so that the boy's face is pressed against his shoulder. "Oh, Alfred," Arthur sighs. "You're so young still." Alfred bristles indignantly. Arthur pretends not to notice, and continues, "If there's one thing that you'll learn as you grow older, it's that life throws a lot of twisted situations your way. Ours just happens to be one of them."

"Arthur—"

"Let me talk. Yes, you're right—maybe what we have is wrong. But is it _our _fault that we feel this way? Did we choose to fall in love with each other?" Alfred is silent. "No, we didn't. It just happened. It's not our fault—perhaps if I had kept you, raised you after you were born, we wouldn't have this problem now. But I didn't, and here we are. We're two males in love. _Love,_ Alfred, not lust. Isn't love supposed to be pure, and beautiful?"

"Not _this _kind. It's still wrong."

"But it's _not our fault._ And, really, Alfred... is it so terrible that we're in love? We're not different genders like that girl and her father—we're both males. Neither of us can conceive children, and isn't one of the major reasons that incest is considered to be unnatural? Because the genes stay in the family, instead of branching out?"

"I... I guess... I mean—" It's really hard to think with those strong arms wrapped around him and the scent of Earl Grey filling his nostrils. The warm, safe feeling that he gets whenever Arthur holds him is clouding his judgment again, making it damn near impossible for him to argue. _'This... he's manipulating me.'_

"We're really not doing anything wrong," Arthur says firmly, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "Tell me, Alfred—do you think of me as your father?"

"...Of _course_ not..."

"How would you define a father?"

"W-well, I mean... a father's the one, who, you know, helped create you during sex—"

"Wouldn't that be more of a _sperm donor _than a father?"

Alfred doesn't know what to say.

Arthur continues, "Think of all the sperm banks here in America, Alfred. All those men are donating their sperm to help others have children—but would you really call them fathers?"

"N-no..."

"In my book," Arthur says, pulling his son back so he can look him in the eye, "a father is someone who raises a child. A man who takes part in a child's life. There are millions of men out there who have had one night stands that resulted in children, yet never took part in their lives—would you call them fathers? No."

This shouldn't make sense, dammit. A voice is screaming that this logic is wrong, all wrong, but it feels _right._ "So, what you're trying to say is, you're not _really_ my father."

"That's right. That's exactly right."

"You're the _sperm donor."_

"You got it."

A part of Alfred wants to scream, _'Then why did you look so uncomfortable after that news report? Why did you seem so guilty? Are you just saying this to make yourself feel better? To justify your actions?'_ But a larger part of him wants to accept this. He doesn't want to be miserable. He doesn't _want_ to become that weird emo kid who sits in the corner all day being depressed and moody. That's not who he is. He's Alfred Franklin Jones, that happy, energetic kid who scores all the goals for the soccer team and flirts with all the cheerleaders during football games, the kid that everyone goes to when they have a problem because he's _just so good_ at fixing them.

He wants to be the Alfred he was just a few months ago, the Alfred with the awesome life and the amazing older boyfriend who loved him and doted on him and didn't mind taking him to Walmart for midnight ice cream runs (though Arthur did bitch a little at the ridiculousness of it all).

He doesn't like this new miserable Alfred who always feels guilty and dirty, who's been throwing up a lot lately.

"Alfred," Arthur says now, resting their foreheads together again, "we're just two people who're in love, who happen to share the same DNA. I can't get you pregnant, so that doesn't even really matter. We don't look all that much alike. I certainly don't _feel_ like your father, and I know you don't think of me as one. So tell me," he lowers his voice now, and moves so close to Alfred that his lips brush lightly against his ear as he talks, "what's keeping us from being together? Why should we care what society thinks? As long as we don't tell anyone, it shouldn't matter. It can just be... our little secret."

_'Our dirty little secret,'_ Alfred thinks, and almost wants to laugh. He doesn't know why; it's not funny at all. Arthur is rubbing small circles into the small of his back, which always turns him into a puddle of goo; he can feel his eyes drooping. _'He's manipulating me again. He's using his closeness and his charisma to woo me over.'_

And honestly? Alfred was starting to care less and less.

Human beings are selfish by nature, and will cling to any belief, no matter how ridiculous it is, if it will justify their actions and make them feel better. Alfred is very much a human being, and he is tired of hurting, tired of feeling guilty, tired of being miserable. He wants to be happy.

"You're right," he says quietly. His heart twinges,and the voice screeches that he's making a mistake, but he ignores them both. "You're right, Arthur. As long as no one knows..." He can't bring himself to finish this sentence. He feels exhausted just from agreeing with him.

Arthur smiles. It might be Alfred's imagination, but he could swear that it looks just a little bit too satisfied. "As long as no one knows, everything will be fine," Arthur finishes. He gently kisses Alfred on the forehead. "There's still the little matter of you being underage, but you don't have much longer until your eighteenth birthday. Until then, we'll be careful, won't we?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy. Come on—let's get you into some warm clothes. Want me to read to you again tonight?"

Everything still feels off, but Alfred's rapidly beginning to accept it; it really is easier to just give in. He gives a mental sigh, and smiles at his father tiredly. "As long as it's Harry Potter. That stupid biography on King George that you read to me the other night nearly drove me to tears."

Arthur's smile widens. "As you wish."

* * *

OH MAH GOSH I THOUGH IT WOULDN'T END. It was originally, like, a whole 'nother page longer, but I decided that a whole section didn't really fit in, so I cut it out and will probably work it in somewhere later. But I hoooope you guys like it! See, Alfred's not all hysterical and stuff! But don't get me wrong, the angst will still be present. It just won't be to the point where there's, like, emo poems and dark brooding music and all that stuff.

By the way, totally unrelated note—I listened to happy, upbeat pop music the entire time I wrote this chapter. "TiK ToK" and "You Belong With Me" stand out foremost in my mind. AHAHAHAHA I think something is wrong with me. -shot- As always, please review! Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. I love you my silly lil' wormbabies!


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